


Díoltas

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s something different about Sherlock’s grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Díoltas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Watsons Woes Challenge 026 for October 2014, "Ghost Story"

The plot topped by the dark stone was tended with military neatness; even in the uneasy chill light of an October dusk not a weed nor pebble was seen to be out of place. The flowers had started to wither, however, so John was back with more – yellow roses and hyacinths, friendship and apology. This was the first time he’d been able to visit this month; technically the cemetery was closed to visitors but old Army campaigners knew that walls were challenges, not obstacles.

John knelt to lay the fresh flowers on the grave, and a hand broke through the grassy soil to grip his forearm.

He shouted at that icy grasp and pulled, bringing his other hand to seize the bony wrist and flapping sleeve, and pulled harder.  
                                                                                                                                                                                                                              
The cold grip did not relent. John let go of the wrist and clawed at the dirt and grass with his fingers, trying to scoop the soil away. He was under there, and when he was free he would forgive John and be alive again and the pain would go away. John tore at the ground, screaming the name etched in the black granite, heedless of the dirt and stones lodging under his nails, splitting his finger ends – fighting not to escape the undead abomination but to free it, embrace it, bring it back to light and air and love and remorse.

The grip slackened. No, no no no – He yanked his wrist free and dug at the ground with both hands, throwing up great clots of earth and stones with his blood and split nails adorning them.

The ground stirred beneath him. Panicked, elated, John dug on.

A second arm broke free, another clawed bony hand clad in the stained, tattered remains of a shirt-sleeve.

John now knelt between the groping arms, shouting the dead man’s name, tearing a gaping hole in the grave.

The entire front of the torso broke free of the soil under the stone and sat up. Black hair, glittering black eyes, a gaping grin that clearly revealed the hole blown out the back of the skull.

“Surprise!” the dead man pealed in a falsetto.

John screamed for a very different reason before the sound was stopped by both icy hands locking around his throat.

***

In a small room somewhere in Istanbul, Sherlock awoke and sat up at the hateful voice calling his name. Once again he glared at the man who’d swallowed his own gun 6 months before, right in front of him. “You can’t frighten me. You won’t stop me. I will destroy your web,” he snarled. “And then I’m going home.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” the spirit intoned, mock-sorrowfully. “No point going home now. Nothing to go home to.”

With a flourish like a magician producing a rabbit, it held up another ghost by the throat – face discoloured, eyes bulging, tongue protruding, the face of a hanged man. But still recognisable.

“Is there, Johnny?” the wraith said sweetly as Sherlock finally began to scream.

**Author's Note:**

> "Díoltas" is Irish Gaelic for "revenge."


End file.
